D is for Death Eaters: A Drabble Collection
by carolinear
Summary: Twenty six drabbles, one for each letter of the alphabet, exploring various eras, characters, and relationships. They all have one thing in common, though: Death Eaters. Includes: AD/AC, LM/NM, LM/BL, RL/BL, BL/Voldemort, and much more. Not all romance.


Hey guys! Alright, here's the deal. I wrote this mostly as a gift to Jacalyn Hyde for being such an amazing reader and reviewer- and as a reward for finding where the title of "My Antonin" could be found within the context of the story. It's taken me a long time to finish.

This is basically just a collection of Death Eater drabbles. It spans many different times and characters, shows many different ships, and is basically just little snippets of nothing in particular from my mind.

I hope you enjoy it!

**A is for Anniversary**

"Alecto," he calls from the kitchen, and she appears in the doorway a moment later. Antonin is sitting there waiting, grinning his most charming grin, with his feet propped up on the table like she always chides him for.

"Yes?" She's been trying to organise the sitting room all morning, shifting furniture around, and the effort of all of the spell-work has left her a bit disheveled and breathless.

"Look." The way he's pointing excitedly out the window is reminiscent of a child, but she moves to see anyway. "It's snowing, Ally."

Her expression changes to one of slight disbelief. "Is that all you needed to tell me?"

Shaking his head, he slides his feet off the table and stands, taking a step toward her. "I think you're forgetting something _very important_," he murmurs.

She's confused by this. "What?"

"It's been exactly one year since we got together."

Her eyes dart to the calendar and, as usual, he's right. "Wow."

"Wow is right," he grins, and then pulls her toward himself and claims her mouth with his.

---

**B is for Blink**

She's looking incredible, as usual, when she walks-or shall I say _saunters-_ into the room. I can't help but allow my lips to curl upward when she turns her heavy-lidded eyes on me, awarding my careful surveillance with a wink.

I shift my weight uneasily to my other foot, glancing around. _No one saw that_, I assure myself, though the paranoid part of my mind is assuming much the opposite.

At my right, my wife Narcissa gives an impatient sort of cough, indicating that I should say something.

I glance toward her, all golden and dainty, everything Bellatrix is not. Cissy is a lady in every sense, an admirably dull-yet-faithful trophy wife. Bella, though, is a true woman, dark and mysterious, but none too faithful.

There's something in the way she eyes me from across the table that makes me forget where I am and what my purpose is. To be honest, I hardly even remember to blink.

---

**C is for Creature**

I don't even remember how old I was when I got bit. Young, maybe five or six, I think, and my name was Johnny back then. My parents, filthy Muggles as they were, didn't want their little wolfie. They set me on the steps of an orphanage, told me to stay 'til someone came for me, and left.

Naturally, they were the first I actually sought to kill. I was fourteen. The orphanage steps hadn't kept my attention for long; I spent most of my childhood floundering between street gangs or wandering the woods.

Beast instinct, mostly, kept me alive. I fed on whatever I desired; even without my transformations, my mind was half-wolf. It might have been that way out of a desperation to survive, I don't know. My stints with the street gangs were always short, and yet I had this desire for "_pack_" that ran through my veins and cried out for company.

So I began biting, not always to kill, but also to gain.

I joined the Dark Lord for protection, mostly. Not to be his lap dog, not for any cause in particular, just for someone to cover my tracks.

I've been called Fenrir Greyback for most of my life now. Nobody remembers the little boy Johnny now. Only the savage creature Greyback, who bares his teeth in a feral grin at me from the mirror.

---

**D is for Dead or Dormant**

The Dark Lord strokes my hair away from my face, murmuring, and then rises to leave.

I'm not asleep, and he knows that, but we both pretend that I am. It makes things easier, somehow, as the door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Moments later, someone enters, and I wonder if my Lord might have returned to take away more of the already twisted fragments of my soul. My head raises, and I watch the back of my husband, Rodolphus, as he hangs his cloak.

I fall back against my pillow silently and shut my eyes.

"I love you, Bella," Rod whispers into my ear, assuming me to be asleep. He never says that when I'm awake.

I loved him too, at some point in our irrational and immature youth. Now, though, the feelings are either dead or dormant. I'm not sure, but I'll never say it back.

I wish it had been my Lord returning, and not my obsequious and weak husband reminding me of my unfaithfulness. His sweet, trusting words condemn me more than harsh shouts ever would, but of course he has no idea. He never has, and he never will.

If I had the capacity for pity, I would feel it for him.

---

**E is for Ease**

It's easier to kill a child when you consider that they're really just a small adult.

At least, that's what I tell myself when we're raiding the McKinnons' home and there's a tiny, freckled face blinking up at me, terrified, from a hiding place behind the bed. She's clutching a plush dog, or perhaps rabbit, against herself, tears streaming from large, dark eyes.

My wand slashes downward after a moment's hesitation, green light engulfing the tiny girl before her form goes limp. Compassion is not an emotion I have room for in my life, but I spared her the torture that Bellatrix would have bestowed, at least. It's duty, not cruelty, I tell myself decisively.

When I return home in the early hours of the morning, I look in on my son as I always do before retiring to my own room. He's not much older than that girl holding the plush toy, and his thumb is jammed in his mouth as he sleeps, peaceful and unaware of anything his father has just done.

I stroke his silver-blonde hair away from his face and depart, feeling very much weaker than I would like to.

---

**F is for Five**

She watches him as he sleeps. Even while resting, he looks tired, too old. She leans and her lips brush across his in a ghost of a kiss, too softly to wake him.

Then her eyes flicker open and she's very much alone, the room dark and cold and far too big for just one person.

It's been five years since they took him to Azkaban. Five years to the day, and yet she still has the same dream, night after night. There's a hollow longing somewhere inside her that remains, no matter how hard she tries to move on.

She rolls over and closes her eyes, tears staining her pillow.

---

**G is for Garden**

"Lucius."

"Yes, Narcissa?"

He sounds weary. She purses her lips.

"I want to have a magnificent garden."

Raising an eyebrow, he points out, "But you hate the outdoors."

"It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?" He's definitely tired of this conversation already, and it just started.

"It's about appearances. If we have a magnificent garden out back, people will rave about it. Our home might even make it into Witch Weekly or something, Lucius! It's all for status."

She's silly for caring about that, seeing as his name already carries all sorts of prominence in the wizarding world, but he knows better than to refuse her.

"Very well. I'll have a garden made for your birthday."

"Excellent," she beams, clapping her hands together. "With peacocks?"

"What?"

"I want peacocks. In the garden. It adds to the magnificence."

"Alright, dear." He sighs. Really, of all things she could ask for.

---

**H is for Home**

Fourteen and a half years in Azkaban have made us skeletons, pasty and sickly looking, our skin stretched too-tight and a haunted look about our eyes. Bellatrix and I stare into our own bathroom mirror, not even knowing how to begin.

"I think I'll get a shower," she murmurs faintly.

I manage to nod, still wondering if that almost-corpse in the mirror could possibly be me. I'm fourteen years in need of a shave, and my hair is tangled and matted and long. If I trusted Bella with cutting charms, I might have her fix it later, but as it is I do it myself, resulting in a choppy and unkempt look.

I'm dirty, but I'm used to my own stench, used to the grime clinging to my skin. I hear water running in the next room over as Bella tries to get the filth off herself, but I think it's penetrated us a bit deeper than the skin at this point.

I walk into my bedroom, which is the same as I left it a decade and a half ago- clean, dark, the bed still unmade from the last time I slept in it.

Without conscious decision, I climb atop the sheets, breathing deeply the scent of clean and crisp, which I know I'm marring with my own wretched smell but I really can't help it.

My eyes fall shut, at ease for the first time in a good long while.

We won't stay for long- they'll come looking for us soon- but just for the moment, I'm home.

---

**I is for Identity**

There's plenty to do, but no will to do it.

I glance at my sister, and can tell she's thinking much of the same thing. It should be an average autumn morning. We should be cackling gleefully over the latest news in the paper, over the tales of our Dark Lord's triumphs, over the successes of the missions of the Death Eaters who were sent out last night.

Instead, we read how the Dark Lord has fallen, and how many of our companions are being captured and shipped off to Azkaban. We both hope that it's not one of us next, but we aren't about to say anything aloud about that.

She sighs, and I say something offhandedly about the weather, which makes her snort derisively.

We're idle, restless, and afraid.

Somehow, in losing our leader, we've lost our own identity.

---

**J is for Jokes**

"Oi, Avery."

It's Sebastian Nott who called me, and I look up from my Transfiguration essay, irritated. "What."

"What'd you get if you crossed a hag and a Scottish badger?"

"... Is this a joke, Nott?"

"Professor McGonagall! Get it?"

I groan. "_Seriously_. I'm trying to do my homework."

He grins. He's only a second year, but his hero worship of us is a bit obnoxious at times, what with all the obvious attempts to gain our approval.

"Very funny," I reply sarcastically. I then swear to myself that I'll never have children, and commence ignoring him.

---

**K is for Killer**

I'm sixteen and my father, curse him, works for the ministry. I bear his infernal name, and people always tell me that I look like he did when he was younger. This, of course, is the last thing I want to hear.

My father, curse him, is interested only in prestige and power. My whole life has been spent under the care of the house elf and occasionally my mother. He, of course, has always been too busy with work to spare me a second glance, except to tell me that I need a haircut or that my shirt is wrinkled.

That's why I joined them, originally. Now the glory and power and fame doesn't lack any appeal, but it was all just for rebellion, in the beginning.

It's the final test. They'll mark me tonight if I can do it, and I know what's coming. I wonder fleetingly what my mother would think- my poor, sweet, naive mother, who has no idea how I spend my time. She's convinced I'm perfect, and because she couldn't handle the truth, I let her believe that.

"Barty," hisses Bellatrix Lestrange, who has been training me for months, all for the sake of this. I inhale; I've been stalling, I know.

My wand slashes downward, and I hardly hear as my mouth utters the fateful words. The green light spills out, claiming its victim, a squat Muggle woman who already has been badly battered by my mentor. Lestrange smiles, pleased at my success.

"Excellent, Barty. Who would have thought the little boy had it in him?" she coos, condescending as always. "Who would have thought the ickle mummy's boy would ever become a Death Eater?"

At the mention of my mother, I jolt a bit. I feel less like a success, all of the sudden, and more like what I really am: a killer.

---

**L is for Leverage**

Bellatrix Lestrange isn't a fool all of the time. There are notions of love imbedded in the back of her mind which sicken me, and her thirst for blood rivals my own, almost to the point of insanity, but she has more cunning than anyone I've met.

Her eyes, dark and haunted, are a familiar sight to me; I've come to be able to read her as easily as I might read my own mind. She allows this, and I know that she derives some sort of pleasure from the violation of her thoughts.

Rodolphus, the girl's unfortunate husband, is quite a fool. He turns a blind eye to everything, follows along with her schemes willingly, and acts to the public as if their marriage is perfect, even though they seldom share the same bed. I would know- the bed she frequents is mine.

He knows this, and a word creeps to the forefront of his thoughts at times while he's in my presence: leverage. The silly boy wants some sort of compensation for his reputation. He wisely never voices this desire, but I half think it would be ironic were I to grant him something if he did so. He's far too afraid, so it's not as if this would ever actually happen.

As his wife lies with her head on my chest that night, I wonder what price one would have to pay for such a woman. Something tells me she wouldn't favour the notion that she had been bought like a common whore, or even that I had entertained such an idea. I chuckle softly.

---

**M is for Miles**

There's a small window in his cell, about the size of a person's fist. He doesn't think they meant to leave it there, but there's something suspiciously like blood smeared inside it and so he assumes it was a failed attempt at escape.

Through it, he sees the impossibility of his situation, and the futility of his life. Before him lie miles and miles of open water. Only despair fills his mind in the long hours that he spends watching the waves. They're always high, higher when it storms, and sometimes when the wind is howling he howls along, hopeless.

Vaguely, Rodolphus wonders where his wife is being kept as he tries to gauge the number of miles separating him from society. There is no answer to either question, and he groans and wants to die.

---

**N is for Notes**

"Let me see your transfiguration notes," Darius Nott insists.

Alecto Carrow glances up from what she's been studying. "What?"

"Your notes," he demands, holding out his hand. "Come on, I don't have all evening."

One of her eyebrows raises. "And you feel entitled to use my work because?"

"Because you're the only second year in Slytherin that pays attention in that class. Now hand them over."

She scowls at him. "I don't think so."

"Come _on,_" he urges, growing impatient, and before she can answer he's snatched them from her lap.

"Hey! Give that back!" Alecto jumps up, wand in hand.

Nott merely cackles and starts up the steps to his dormitory. In his haste, he runs into Antonin Dolohov, a third year that people tend to avoid out of fear of his infamous hexing prowess.

"Give them back," Dolohov instructs calmly, and the boy throws the papers down and scampers away.

He grins at Alecto and hands her the notes, and she smiles back timidly, blushing madly.

---

**O is for Olive**

"Let's paint the den this weekend," Alecto asserts over dinner. Antonin pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth, and stares at her blankly.

"Come again?" he requests.

"You. Me. Painting spells. Our den," she clarifies, rolling her eyes. "I'm getting bored with having white walls in every room."

Watching her, he clears his throat awkwardly. This hasn't been an issue for the past three months that they've been living together, and he can't see why it has become one now.

"Whatever makes you happy, love," he sighs.

Twenty-four shades of green later, they've settled on a nice olive colour and Alecto seems quite pleased.

"It's not bad," he admits, looking around. Before her, he never saw the need to apply any effort toward any real interior decorating.

"I know," she beams. "Just wait until we paint the nursery!"

Antonin freezes. "_What_?"

---

**P is for Pretty**

"Am I pretty, Roddy?"

Bella's standing in front of the long mirror on our bedroom wall, looking at herself sideways. It's been a while since she's called me Roddy, and I take a moment to try and figure out why she would do such a thing, but I have no answer as to that particular mystery of life.

"You're stunning, Bella," I say, carefully.

Her eyes suddenly lock on mine. "But am I _pretty_?"

"You're beautiful," I assure her. "I don't know why you need me to tell you that though."

"So I'm not pretty, then?"

Why is it, I wonder, that women are never happy with what you say to them?

---

**Q is for Quiet**

The house is like it usually is: Quiet, so quiet that the sound of the cat's feet padding against the floor is almost relatively thunderous. I hate the still, cold feel of the building around me, but I can't bring myself to shatter the peace.

I sigh and check my watch, though I know I have no appointments to keep and knowing the time will do nothing to further ameliorate the situation.

Bella and Rod should be home. I wonder if I should ask them over for dinner. Anything would be better than this, the quiet that encompasses me like a blanket- even my brother's obnoxious wife whose idea of dinner conversation includes discussing the most gruesome means of torture possible.

"Rabastan, get a grip on yourself," I mutter, because I've been far too anxious as of late. My voice ripples through the house, too loud, and I grind my teeth together as the sound fades away, leaving the house just as still as before.

Then, suddenly, it's not quiet any longer. I freeze, though whether its nerves or the effect of a spell I'm not sure.

The aurors have come.

---

**R is for Rabbit**

"Where's my wabbit?" asks little Draco, scowling up at his father, who looks perplexed.

"Your what, Draco?"

"Wabbit," the boy responds, as if he's talking to someone very stupid. "He's not _here._"

The father gives the bed, which is absolutely full of stuffed animals, a cursory glance. "I'm sure it's there somewhere."

"No," the child insists. "I want my wabbit!"

"We'll find it in the morning."

"No! Now!" Draco's lip is trembling, threatening a tantrum.

"What's the matter?" Narcissa asks from the doorway.

"His wab-rabbit seems to be missing," Lucius responds, and his wife giggles at his slip-up.

---

**S is for Stars**

It's far past midnight when he joins me on the back porch, sitting down next to me on the step and slipping one arm around my shoulders.

"It's normal to feel like this after your first kill," he whispers. I've got my knees tucked up under my chin and I don't look at him. "It gets easier, Alecto. Just remember your goal."

Remembering makes it easier, but not easy. I nod, still silent.

"Look up," he instructs, surprising me; I certainly wasn't expecting that.

And I do so, and realise what a clear night it is. The moon is a tiny sliver, and stars speckle the black curtain of sky, winking at me from their place in the heavens.

"In my world, they shine for you, you know."

I lean against his shoulder and sigh. He kisses the top of my head, and I stare up at the stars, which are suddenly filled with new meaning, as am I.

---

**T is for Talk**

"Evan," Lorraine smiles at me. "I need to talk to you, okay?"

It's not difficult for her to lure me away from my friends, and I follow her out of the common room and off behind a tapestry in a small alcove- actually, it's the first place she kissed me.

"Hey, Lori, what do you need?" I query, not unkindly.

"I think it's best," she starts, "If we break up. I sort of want to see other people."

_Oh._

"Uh, um, okay," I stammer, shocked.

She flashes her award-winning smile at me and flounces away, leaving me staring after her.

So it was one of _those _"I need to talk to you"s.

---

**U is for Ugly (a response to P is for Pretty)**

"Bella, do you think I'm ugly?"

She frowns at me from the bed as I look at myself in the mirror. "Rodolphus, you're acting like a girl," she chides, and goes back to reading her book.

Why is it okay for her to ask, but not for me, I wonder? I decide not to ask, though, seeing as she'd probably just get annoyed. Women never fail to perplex me.

---

**V is for Vase**

Amycus enters my room at a little past three in the afternoon. I'm six, he's seven, and as far as siblings go, we don't fight too much.

That doesn't mean I want him in my room, though, and I glare at him.

"'Lecto," he whispers conspiratorially, kneeling next to where I'm playing with my dolls on the floor. "Mum's going to kill me."

"For what, this time?"

He sticks his tongue out briefly. "I broke her vase."

"Amy_cus_. She can fix that with magic."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean she'll be happy. I broke two plates last week. She's already mad at me."

"What do you want me to do about it?" I ask, not seeing how this applies to me.

Somehow, when our mother starts shrieking later that evening, I'm the one who ends up taking the blame.

---

**W is for Wilted (a response to G is for Garden)**

"Lucius," Narcissa says, peering out over their newly-planted garden. "I think our flowers are wilted."

"Our flowers? Cissa, it's _your _garden," he mumbles.

"But if I want to show up in Witch Weekly it has to look nice."

"Get the house elves to tend it, then."

"Lucius, they're called _house _elves for a reason," she points out.

He groans inwardly. "Fine, we'll hire a gardener."

"Excellent!" she beams, clapping her hands together. "Oh, and dear?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." She leans and kisses his cheek, and he is reminded why he caters to her every whim.

---

**X is for Xenophobic**

It's midnight, but we're all in the common room still with a couple of bottles of firewhiskey, playing truth or dare.

"Truth or dare, Narcissa?" asks her older sister, Bellatrix, who is cruel and conniving and uses this game mostly in order to expose peoples' weaknesses.

"Truth," the blonde one says, knowing better than asking for one of Bella's dares, which are usually either extremely dangerous or humiliating or both.

"What are you most afraid of?" she smirks. She already knows the answer, she just wants Cissa to have to say it in front of all of us.

"Xenophilius Lovegood," the younger Black mumbles, and everyone bursts out laughing. "What?" she demands. "He's _creepy_."

No one's listening, though, because we're all too busy laughing.

---

**Y is for Yours**

Bellatrix and I are getting married in a little less than a week, but we've been engaged since we were small children, so there's no real thrill in it for her.

She's been moping for most of the month, actually.

"What's wrong, Bella?" I ask one day.

"Nothing, why?"

"No, I mean, every time the wedding is mentioned you get really... quiet," I clarify.

"Oh." She laughs hollowly, then explains, "It's just how everyone seems so convinced that when we're married, I'm going to become _yours _or something like that. It annoys me."

I laugh hollowly, too, because Bella would only ever belong to one man, and he certainly wasn't me.

---

**Z is for Zombie**

Fourteen years, eleven months, and seventeen days have passed since they took him to Azkaban. She's hollow, but surviving.

Her back is to the door, and she's reading, no doubt something on the Dark Arts; she's taken a keen interest lately to the subject, and her brother has been taking her to some of the Dark Lord's meetings. It won't be long before she gets Marked.

"Alecto," someone calls, a voice weary and hoarse from disuse.

She turns, and the second her eyes meet his, she no longer feels like a zombie. Life courses through her, and she almost smiles before her mind goes dark from shock.


End file.
